


Need you so much closer

by sirona



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Christmas, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-03
Updated: 2011-03-03
Packaged: 2017-10-16 01:58:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/167193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirona/pseuds/sirona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s Christmas -- family obligations dictate Arthur and Eames push themselves out of their warm, comfortable flat and take the pilgrimage to their respective families. Neither has any idea just how hard it would be to spend the holidays apart; thank god for meddling mothers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Need you so much closer

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to by brilliant beta zolac_no_miko, who went above-and-beyond trying to get to betaing this thing; who caught my Brit-isms and fixed them (for Arthur’s POV); and who suggested (among other brilliant, insightful suggestions) the excellent title (which comes from “Transatlanticism” by Death Cab For Cutie). Written for the Eames_Arthur Secret Santa exchange, for fallen_reason.
> 
> Disclaimer: Definitely not mine. They belong to Chris Nolan, but bless him for giving them to the world! Neil Barrett belongs to himself (he’s a real person, but I’ve never met him, so I claim creative licence). No Bugatti Veyrons (or Stigs) were harmed during the writing of this fic.

Somewhere along the way he’s gotten used to this, Arthur realises when, still half-asleep, he hears Eames carry in a tray loaded with delicious-smelling things and leave it on the chest at the foot of the bed. He disappears again, only to come back a minute later carrying his own cup of coffee (if Arthur’s nose is not very much mistaken), and climbs back into bed with a load of freshly-bought Sunday newspapers. Arthur can practically smell the ink still drying.

He sighs, attempts to snuggle closer to Eames’ furnace-like body and drift back to sleep, but his nose won’t let him – the smell of blueberry pancakes threatening to go cold is more than he can stand. He opens one eye and glares at Eames for producing the means to prevent him from returning to sweet, sweet unconsciousness. To his consternation, Eames doesn’t even shudder.

“That won’t even frighten a kitten at this rate,” he says instead, one corner of his mouth quirking upwards beguilingly. “Go on, darling, you can do better. I’ve seen your glare make a grown man quake in his boots; this will simply not do! It’s only a two, maybe a three on a scale of ten.”

“Have you been actually _rating_ my _glares_?” Arthur grumbles in a sleep-roughened voice.

Eames smiles, one of his full-blown grins that Arthur not-so-secretly adores, crooked teeth and all. “There have been times when your glares have been the only thing to have kept me going, darling; you shouldn’t make fun of me for feeling a little nostalgic. It _is_ almost Christmas.”

And there it is, the issue of the year. “So you’re saying that you’ve been missing my glares? Eames, you should have said something; I’d hate to have been depriving you of a decent glare or two.”

He’s never been all that successful at misdirection. They have been dancing around the subject for the past month or so, ever since Eames had made it emphatically clear that he wasn’t going away unless Arthur packed his bags for him and shoved him out on the sidewalk, and Arthur had given up fighting the one thing he’d ever really wanted. This year would be quite different from the Christmas before, which they had spent mostly snarking and grouching about having to spend it together. Arthur thinks their current situation stems from the fact that he hadn’t been all too convincing in said grouching -- he’d been doing it out of habit by that time.

The entirety of Eames’ attention is still focused on him, even if he is projecting the impression of being studiously absorbed in the paper. Arthur gives up.

“Look. I promised I’d go to my parents’ house this year, since I didn’t even manage to call last year. Well, I couldn’t very well tell my mother that we’d been in hiding at the time,” he says defensively at Eames’ raised eyebrow.

Arthur has been thinking long and hard about this, and has decided there’s no need to mention his uncle Brian, especially not now – he doesn’t want to spoil their morning, even though it would explain why he hasn’t invited Eames to his house for the holidays, no matter how much he wants to. Just thinking about the asshole makes Arthur’s blood boil; exposing his… significant other to the vileness of the homophobic tirades that sprout from the man’s disapprovingly scrunched mouth is simply unacceptable. He’s had to deal with them enough on his own as it is – Christmas dinners have not been the best time for Arthur for the past few years, and there had been no small relief in being prevented from attending last year.

There’s a carefully concealed flash of disappointment in Eames’ eyes that makes Arthur’s stomach churn; just because Eames can read the world like an open book, though, doesn’t mean that Arthur can’t read _him_ much the same way – seven years of not-so-covert observation tend to have that effect.

“That’s okay,” Eames says. “I promised my mother pretty much the same thing, so it seems like we’re both stuck with filial obligations.” He flashes a calculatedly carefree smile Arthur’s way; Arthur resists the temptation to roll his eyes heavenwards. Who does the man think he’s fooling?

Though, likely he doesn’t realise that Arthur can read him quite so well; Arthur has never made an issue of the fact, or used the information to get one-up on him. He’d always thought that would be... unsportsmanlike.

“True,” he says regretfully. There isn’t much he can do with the information even now; a promise is a promise, and you pissed off Mrs. Lake at your own risk. “New Year’s, then?”

This time, Eames’ smile is much more honest. “New Year’s,” he agrees, and twists down to kiss him swiftly, like sealing another promise. “Now sit up, your breakfast’s getting cold.” He pulls back the covers and gets up, carries the tray round and pops it over Arthur’s lap, earning himself a genuine smile-with-dimples. Arthur is well aware that glares aren’t the only thing Eames rates; of that knowledge, he takes shameless advantage.

~~

Later that week, they pack their bags separately-but-together. No matter how many times Arthur tells himself that ‘it’s just a few days, no different than any other time we’ve been apart for work’, his mind won’t be fooled. _It_ knows why it’s important.

They’ve agreed not to exchange presents until after Christmas without really discussing it; they’re going to be thinking about each other enough as it is without throwing something sentimental like gifts into the mix. Arthur just took delivery last week of the five sweaters and three shirts from the [Ferragamo spring/summer 2011 collection](http://www.gq-magazine.co.uk/style/catwalk-fashion-shows/SS2011/Mens/milan/Salvatore_Ferragamo/full-length-photos?page=1) that he had pre-ordered for Eames way back in September, ostensibly because he couldn’t bear to look at any more paisley, but in reality because the thought of Eames throwing those soft, form-hugging sweaters over a fitted undershirt, with a pair of jeans or linen trousers to match, is a particularly mouthwatering prospect.

Eames has insisted on listening to Christmas music all damn week; Arthur is ready to strangle the whole of Cambridge’s King’s College Choir if it would get him some peace and quiet. He doesn’t say anything, though, because it’s clear that it soothes Eames, probably makes him think of home. It might well be a family tradition; Arthur can just imagine the huge country manor, with the twenty-odd fireplaces all wreathed in holly and ivy and sprigs of mistletoe to complete the impression, and the King’s College Choir warbling away in the background.

On Friday they share a cab to the airport, sitting very close together in the back seat of the car, thighs pressed against each other’s. They don’t talk much – there isn’t much to say, and Arthur will be damned if he’s going to sound like some Victorian maiden about to be separated from her one true love for the eternity of a week in total. They’re grown men, they can handle this.

It doesn’t explain why over the forty-minute ride his hand migrates to cover Eames’ on his lap and thread their fingers together, or why his heart leaps when Eames scrunches his nose and smiles his crooked grin at him, tightening his hold.

At the airport Arthur holds the car door open for him. Eames throws him an odd look _again_ ; you’d think he’d be used to it by now, Arthur’s been doing it for years. It’s not that he thinks Eames can’t do it for himself; it’s just that his mom drilled manners into him and his sister at an early age, a significant part of which was ‘how to treat the object of your affections; and no, Arthur that does not include pulling their hair, _or_ pushing them down into the sandpit, Samantha, shame on you!’. Come to think of it, that should have been a dead giveaway from the start -- he still wants to kick himself over how long it had taken him to realise what all the holding doors open for Eames, buying him coffee, and all the small things he’d thought perfectly natural at the time really meant.

“Give my regards to your parents,” Eames says at his gate, always the perfect gentleman. His flight is earlier than Arthur’s, but Arthur had thought it a waste of time and money to wait at home a few more hours before his was scheduled; not to mention that he hadn’t relished the opportunity to linger in the far-too-empty apartment on his own.

“Likewise,” Arthur smiles. They’re going to have to do the whole ‘meet the parents’ dance soon enough, he muses. With all that entails.

Eames leans in to kiss him, still slightly questioning since they’re out in the open, surrounded by busy travellers. Arthur meets him half-way. To hell with the rest of the world; he just wants to feel those lips on his one more time before they have to go. Eames kisses like he does everything else – rigidly controlled, but with an edge of wildness that makes Arthur’s blood sing and his heart pound in his ears. Eames’ tongue is there for the barest flash of time before it’s gone again, and Arthur leans forward, intent on chasing it. Eames presses their foreheads together instead, content to let their breaths mingle, just as the last call for his flight sounds over the speakers.

“See you soon,” Eames murmurs, and with a last press of his lips he’s gone.

Arthur knows Eames only does this because he thinks walking away from Arthur should be done quickly, like ripping a band-aid off – it doesn’t make the sting any less painful. Arthur presses his lips together and turns, walks away himself, follows the familiar path to the nearest Starbucks and orders the triple shot of caffeine needed to keep him going until he gets to his parents’ house. He wonders when he stopped thinking of it as ‘home’. Probably about the same time Eames started telling him to ‘come home already’, that the research would still be there in the morning and that dinner would be ready in ten minutes. He knows full well Eames lies to him, because he’s always taking whatever they’re having for dinner off the stove just as Arthur comes through the door some thirty minutes later, but Arthur’s never called him on it, and he never will.

~~

The flight is boring, boring, _boring_ , especially since they have no jobs even tentatively planned at the moment and Arthur has no pressing research to focus on. While it’s nowhere near the nine hours that Eames has to endure, it’s still tedious enough that he considers tracking Eames’ phone’s GPS signal just for something to do. Finally, he pulls out Eames’ dog-eared copy of _Good Omens_ that he’d snagged on his way out of the flat, and tries to lose himself in it.

It works, up to a point; he amuses himself with making up the voices in his head. Rather a lot of them sound suspiciously like Eames in various body shapes. An hour later, blissfully, he slips into a light doze that lasts until the plane starts its descent to the Minneapolis airport tarmac.

Sam meets him at the Arrivals gate, jiggling impatiently on the balls of her feet. “At fucking last, Arthur, you’ve no idea what a relief it is to have you here,” she grumbles at him, enveloping him in a tight hug that smells of vanilla and cinnamon and baking, and Arthur thinks he knows exactly what’s been going on here.

“Has mom had you chained to the kitchen table all morning?” he smirks as he herds his distraught sister towards the exit.

“It was awful,” Sam moans, grasping at his coat sleeve for support. “All that flour! All that kept me going was the thought that I could pass all of it on to you when you finally turned up!”

Arthur chuckles at her scowl. Their mom and he had always bonded over the cooking and baking, while Sam had been pottering in the garage with their father practically since she was born. Arthur has always found the dichotomy soothing; it’s deeply entrenched in their family, a part of who they are. Truth be told, he’s been looking forward to this, even though he feels guilty that it’s something that’s his alone and doesn’t include Eames.

They stop at the supermarket on the way, Sam waving the shopping list their mother had apparently pressed into her hand as she’d run out of the house. Arthur expertly steers his distracted sister through the isles, and makes sure to add a bottle of Bombay Sapphire to the shopping basket, to her hissed “Yes!” and not very concealed fistpump.

Their mom can barely wait for them to get out of the car before she pulls Arthur into yet another baking-scented hug. “Oh, sweetheart, it’s so good to see you! Let’s get you inside! George? George! Arthur is here! Let me help you with the shopping; Sam, you take the ingredients into the kitchen, I’ll take the flour and the drinks; oh, here you are, George, dear, help Arthur with his bags, will you?”

“Hello, son,” Arthur’s dad manages to squeeze in, smiling at Arthur wryly and grabbing him into a one-armed hug as his wife pushes Arthur’s luggage into his spare hand.

“Hi, Dad,” Arthur smiles back, taking in the familiar smells of leather and cigar smoke and grease, letting them pull him back to a simpler time.

His mom herds the three of them into the house like a well-trained shepherd dog showing off. Arthur takes in the ornament-laden fire hazard that is the Christmas tree in the corner by the fireplace; just like every year, Jordan – the family’s gravity-challenged cat currently sprawled over the sofa arm – is eyeing it up with worrying intent.

“Hello you,” Arthur stops to stroke his silky ears in passing. Jordan considers him for a moment before regally butting his head into the warm palm, inviting more petting.

Arthur barely has time to change out of his Gucci pullover and Hugo Boss pants before he’s elbows-deep in cookie dough, cutters in all shapes and sizes lined up before him. It’s barely the 22nd, but his mom believes in getting started early. Likely they’ll have his aunt Jenny and uncle James over for Christmas dinner, with their respective spouses and grown-up children and _their_ spouses, unless the plan deviates drastically from last year’s. And Brian. _Mustn’t forget Brian,_ he thinks with a scowl that he quickly smoothes from his face before his mom notices.

When Sam appears briefly and passes him a gin and tonic with a wink, he’s almost pathetically grateful.

He takes a break for a re-fill when the first batch of cookies is in the oven and the second one is set up, leaving his mom pouring chocolate and coffee muffin dough into the forms. He finds Sam balancing precariously on a chair in the living room, stretching up to fix a long piece of tinsel to the top of one of the bookshelves. Since Sam is about an inch taller than him in her stockinged feet, he makes no move to help apart from steadying the chair until she’s done.

“Take a break with me?” he asks, mixing them both another drink. Sam huffs in relief and flops down on the sofa, jostling the napping Jordan and pulling him into her lap, where he proceeds to take up twice his length in space.

“Arthur,” his sister starts; Arthur snaps to attention immediately at her tone -- cautious, a little embarrassed, a little bit ridiculously pleased. “I’m bringing Tom this year.”

Arthur doesn’t need to ask where; Sam can only mean she’s bringing her boyfriend to their Christmas dinner. “Does he know what he’s getting himself into?” he teases, but for the life of him he can’t stop thinking of Eames, of bringing Eames with him, of having him there with the rest of his closest people. Had Eames been thinking the same thing that last morning in their bed, with that look on his face?

Sam is staring at him, delight slowly dawning all over her face. “Ohoho, what’s this?! Arthur, do you have a _boyfriend_ I don’t know about? You sly thing, you never said a word!”

Arthur feels his face heat until he’s quite sure it’s flaming. He opens and closes his mouth a few times, not quite knowing what to say. It’s all the confirmation his devious sister needs.

“Oh my god, ickle Artie’s in love!” she squeals, clapping her hands in mirth. Her long dark hair bounces behind her as she laughs excitedly. Arthur scowls at her, still blushing; it’s just his curse in life that the two people he most often wants to intimidate into silence are both immune to his death glare. Oh god, Sam and Eames are going to be impossible to handle once they do meet.

Meanwhile, he can at least _try_. “Shut up, _Samantha_!” he growls.

He knows he’s in trouble when even the strategic use of her full name can’t dim the evil light in her eyes. “You must tell me _everything_ about him! Is he tall? Short? Gorgeous? Does he have an enormous—“

“Finish that sentence, and I’m going to tell Tom all about that time in ninth grade,” he warns, baring his teeth at her.

“Spoilsport,” Sam pouts. “Besides, Tom knows most of it; he was there, remember?”

Arthur had forgotten, actually. It’s the curse of having a prospective brother-in-law that he’s known since his family moved to the neighbourhood when he was eleven.

“Come on, Artie,” Sam groans pathetically. “Don’t be so cruel! Give me something! You’re killing me here!” She grabs his arms and shakes him, as if that’s going to make him talk.

Arthur knows, he _knows_ he’s going to regret this. “It’s Eames.”

Sam’s mouth drops open for a moment. “Omigod!” she shrieks so high that Jordan vaults off her lap in fear for his life. “The hot British guy? Holy shit, Arthur, you slut!”

“Oh, fuck off,” he growls at her, incensed.

“No, no, no, not so fast, you! I was right! I was totally right!” she gloats; it’s definitely unattractive, Arthur thinks uncharitably. He crosses his arms, wishing he could deny it.

Sam sobers up a little at his expression. “No, but really, Artie. You’ve been lusting after the guy and pushing him away for years. What changed?”

Arthur sighs. He can’t very well tell her about last year in Naples, that Eames had laid a siege on his defences until he’d just been plain tired of denying that he wanted it, he wanted Eames. Especially since both his and Eames’ families haven’t the first idea what it is they do – they think the two of them are some sort of insurance investigators, a la _The Thomas Crown Affair_. Arthur’s mom thinks it’s terribly romantic, to boot.

“It just turned out that he was a lot more serious about it than I gave him credit for,” he hedges.

Sam looks unconvinced. Arthur grits his teeth and spills. “He courted me. Incessantly. For a whole month. There was a Bugatti Veyron involved.”

“A Bugatti Veyron,” Sam says, breathing hard; she sounds like she’s going to hyperventilate momentarily.

“Yeah. He convinced a mate of his to lend it to us for the day and let me take it through its paces,” Arthur ventures, and covers his ears just in time to avoid getting his eardrums burst by Sam’s scream of shock and envy. “I’ll ask if we can borrow it again when you come visit,” he gets out hurriedly while he’s being shaken back and forth by his demented sister.

“Why isn’t this paragon of perfection here with you?” she wants to know when she has calmed down a bit.

Arthur smiles a little wistfully and looks down at his hands so Sam wouldn’t see the naked want in his eyes. “He’d promised his mother he’d spend Christmas with the family -- he didn’t make it home last year, either. And—Well. Brian.” He scrunches his nose in disgust.

Sam bristles when he mentions their uncle. “He’s not coming this year,” she tells him, a mutinous light in her eyes.

Arthur gapes, shock and relief jostling for position in his chest. “Really?” he asks, hardly daring to hope. Then he frowns. “How did that come about?”

Sam winces, as if even thinking about it is painful for her. “It was even worse than usual last year. Normally he just hounds you – which is bad enough, but you know how to handle him and not let him get to you – but when you weren’t here, he graced the table with one of his ‘speeches’. Basically, Dad flipped. He threw him out of the house, told him he wasn’t welcome here until he’d stopped being a homophobic asshole. You should have seen the look on his face,” Sam gloats, vindictive glee written all over hers. Arthur isn’t the only one to have issues with Brian. “Frankly, I can’t believe it took Dad this long, but you know how he needs a while to really gather steam.”

“That’s brilliant,” Arthur says, a cautious smile stretching his lips wide. There’s an unstoppable wave of warmth blooming in him, taking over his whole being. It had been a long time in coming, but Arthur respects his parents more than any other adults in his life, and so he hadn’t said anything. A tiny part of him, insecure and still fifteen-years-old and coming out of the closet for the first time, had been scared to death that the reason they hadn’t said anything was because they’d agreed with Brian. It had been a niggling ache, buried so deep that he hadn’t even noticed it until he feels it unclench now, sending relief cresting through him.

It fades a little when he finds himself thinking that he could have invited Eames along after all, could have had him here with the rest of the people he loves. The thought angers and subdues him at the same time.

Sam’s been watching him, unpicking his private revelations almost as soon as he becomes aware of them himself. She smiles a little sadly, but doesn’t say a word – just takes his hand and squeezes, stroking the back of it with her thumb and lifting it to her mouth for a small, reassuring kiss.

“I still can’t believe you didn’t tell us anything about Eames,” she says at last, though more supportive than chiding.

“It was all so-- new. I sort of wanted to keep it to myself. I was hoping that-- oh, never mind,” he looks away, waves his hand as if to push the thought away; as if he could forget how much he’d hoped that he and Eames might be able to spend Christmas together. He’s too distracted to notice Sam’s shrewd eyes on his face, or the way they narrow at the obviously fake carefree smile he gives her.

“Arthur, honey!” their mother calls from the kitchen, and Arthur escapes, almost relieved that conversation is over, leaving Sam staring thoughtfully at his back.

~~

Now that he’s told Sam about Eames, and the spectre of Brian has been suitably dispersed, Arthur literally cannot stop thinking about the man. He finds himself turning to ask Eames’ opinion when he’s discussing cars with his dad; looks for him when he wants to share a smile at something snarky Sam has said; unconsciously reaches for a hand that isn’t there when his mom starts bugging him about whether he’s found someone yet.

He fights it, fights it hard -- not to lose himself in thoughts of Eames in a middle of a conversation, not to flinch when he looks for Eames and doesn’t find him. He’d had no idea he’d gotten so used to Eames being there all the time, that he finds it strange now when Eames isn’t standing next to him, or poking his head around the corner from the kitchen. He’s sure his parents and Sam notice, though, no matter how determined he is not to show that he feels like a part of him is missing. He hates the weakness that he’s somehow allowed Eames to become in his life; hates his lapse in control every time he can’t help but picture Eames charming his mom with that stupid crooked smile on his face.

It’s barely the 23rd and Arthur already feels rubbed raw from the effort it takes to keep his smile in place, to stop wondering what Eames is doing this very minute, to stop checking his phone obsessively for new messages after the one from late last night ( _Just landed @ lhr, en route 2 mums miss u already xxx_ ). Arthur almost resents him for taking away some of the enjoyment he derives from spending time with his parents and with Sam -- it happens all too rarely these days as it is.

His dad’s voice breaks through his daze; the effort to shake Eames out of his head and get on with things leaves him weak. Oh god. He is in much more serious trouble than he’d thought.

~~

“Oh, Arthur,” Sam’s voice comes from behind him -- Arthur jumps, badly startled. This is getting ridiculous; his awareness of his surroundings has never been so lax in his life. He tears his hands away from the Christmas tree ornament that looks suspiciously like a poker chip and turns to face her, eyebrows raised in question.

Sam just shakes her head for a moment, looking sad. “You’re _pining_ ,” she states.

“Am not!” It’s reflexive, and he resists the urge to cover his hands with his pullover’s sleeves, like he used to do as a child when he was feeling uncertain and wrong-footed. He doesn’t meet Sam’s eyes.

Sam scoffs, rolling her eyes in that big-sister way of hers that she’s never quite outgrown. “Even Dad’s noticed. He came to ask me if there was something wrong with you!” She throws her hands in the air, exasperated.

Arthur winces. He’d never intended to make his parents feel uneasy. “Oh god,” he moans and drops his head in his hands. “I’m so sorry.”

Sam curls long-fingered hands so similar to his own around his wrists and tugs his arms down to make him look at her. “I know you’ve been trying, Arthur. You’ve just never been any good at hiding it when you’re besotted with someone. I was honestly astonished that you managed to hold your Eames off for as long as you did.”

“This is a nightmare,” Arthur whines, horrified, tugging his wrists back from her loose hold and throwing himself down on the sofa in despair. “I can’t believe I can’t even last three days without him! This cannot be happening!”

“Yet here you are,” Sam smirks. She pushes his long legs out of the way and sits down next to him, stretching her own long jeans-clad ones in front of her. “Arthur,” she says, sounding as serious as he’s ever heard her. He opens his eyes and looks at her blearily. “Not that it hasn’t been brilliant to see you, but you need to go.”

Emotions crowd in the wake of her words -- hurt, anger, irritation, and, tentatively, hope. “Are you kicking me out of the house?!” he demands, crossing his arms over his chest defensively.

“What? No!” Sam yelps, smacking his shoulder for good measure. “You moron. You need to go to Eames! It’s painfully obvious that you’re only going to mope around the house for the next three days and make everyone miserable with your ennui. At least that way Eames will be the one to deal with you, and you’ll spare your poor family all the grief!” She grins, triumphant and ever so pleased with herself.

“I can’t just walk out on Mom and Dad, they’ll kill me!” Arthur says, sitting up in horror at the thought.

“No, your Mom and Dad are going to kill you if you stay here because you want to make them happy even when it makes you miserable, rather than getting on the next flight to England and spending a happy Christmas holiday with your young man,” his mom says from behind them.

“Mom!” Arthur yelps and turns to face her, guilt written all over his face.

“Sweetheart, stop gaping at me like that and go get your coat! Your dad’s already got the car running; there’s a flight to London through New York in an hour and forty-five minutes, and you’re going to be on it if I have to drag you there myself!” His mom is smiling, a little sad but no less loving than usual.

“Mom, I--” he tries, still shell-shocked and feeling ashamed of himself.

“Arthur,” his mom cuts him off in the no-nonsense voice that he’s been trained to obey since he’d still been in diapers. “Don’t argue with your mother. Sam’s already packed your bags; the presents you brought for everyone are in the next room, I’ll put them under the tree once you go; and I’ve booked you a seat on the plane already. Please, sweetheart,” his mom says gently, “let us make you happy. It’s the best Christmas present we could ask for.”

Arthur rounds the sofa in three giant steps and squeezes his mom in a massive hug. “Thank you,” he murmurs, not even trying to pretend that his voice didn’t just break. “It’s the best present you could give me.”

His mom sniffs a little, pushing him away after a moment. “Oh, get on with you,” she instructs, smiling through her tears and prodding him towards the door. “And make sure you bring your man here next time!”

“I will,” Arthur smiles brilliantly over his shoulder, still reeling from the family-sized intervention.

“Come on!” Sam urges, impatient as always; she grabs his arm and practically drags him to the door, only stopping to let him put his shoes back on and shrug his peacoat over his dove-gray pullover. Sam and his mom pull on their winter coats, too, and the three of them pile out of the door and into the already running car.

“Your bag is in the trunk, son, I think Sam packed everything, but if there’s something left we’ll send it over to your flat after the holidays,” his dad rumbles from the front, smiling at him in the driver’s mirror. His mom turns around in the passenger seat and beams back at him, warm brown eyes – much like the ones he sees every morning in the mirror – crinkled happily.

Arthur feels a little like a child again, crowded in the back seat with Sam, listening to his parents bickering amiably over the best route to take to the airport. It reminds him of that last drive together, when he’d been going away to college in New York, bags laden with books and possibilities. He feels exhilarated all over again, like the world is his for the taking, all he could possibly imagine and more.

~~

They reach the airport with minutes to spare; Arthur grabs his vintage Gucci leather carry-all from the trunk, waving goodbye frantically as he runs inside. Three voices shout “good luck”-s and “we love you”-s from behind him; he spares a second to shout “I love you guys” back, grinning like a loon, before he rushes to the check-ins. Not twenty minutes of dashing through security checks, shouting apologies as he hurries around other passengers, and bemused smiles at his contagious enthusiasm later, he’s strapped into his seat and the plane is taking off, back to New York and off to London an hour after that, on the red-eye flight.

This time round, he can barely sit still the entire thirteen hours it takes him to land in London, driving all the passengers around him to distraction with his incessant nervous fidgeting. It’s about ten o’clock in the morning of the 24th December when he stumbles out of Arrivals at Heathrow, and he is _really_ going to pay for the accumulated jet-lag later – but right now he’s running so high on adrenaline and excitement that he only just manages not to run over to the rent-a-car office through the teeming airport. He owes Sam big time for thinking ahead and booking a car for him last night. He has no doubt that the return favour she’ll extract will be epic; but it’ll be worth it, he thinks as he leaves London behind and heads towards Wiltshire, following the GPS coordinates of Eames’ phone that he’d programmed into the car’s Sat Nav.

The further away he gets from the city, the greener the countryside becomes. Arthur has always adored green fields in winter, and England has those in abundance. There are traces of snow here and there; Arthur wouldn’t at all be surprised if it starts snowing before nightfall, judging by the heavy, dirty-yellow clouds hanging in the sky, biding their time. The roads get narrower and narrower, until they are no more than country lanes full of curves that his mud-splattered Honda hugs closely.

By the time he reaches the correct turn, Arthur is starting to wonder if perhaps he should have called ahead. He glances at the huge bouquet of blush roses that he’d stopped for on his way out of London, hoping against hope that Eames’ mother won’t think him unforgivably rude for gate-crashing their family celebration. Arthur knows next to nothing about Eames’ family, and his imagination has been working overtime for the entire trip; he’s sucked down so much caffeine to keep from getting nervous that he’s fairly vibrating. If worse came to worst, Arthur is sure there are hotels aplenty in London, if not in the vicinity of Eames’ house, that Arthur can make use of. It would just be nice if it doesn’t have to come to that.

The house the Sat Nav directs him to is frankly intimidating. Arthur feels like he’s stepped straight into the pages of _Pride & Prejudice_ without anyone warning him. This is without a doubt what Pemberley must have been based on – honey-gold stone, beautiful columns framing the entrance, extensive, meticulously maintained grounds... the architect in Arthur is a little bit in love with the perfect proportions and the beautiful façade. Arthur half-expects a horse-drawn carriage to clatter to a stop in front of the entrance; instead, there are clear signs that cars have recently rolled to a stop just outside the door. So he follows their lead and climbs out, heart in his throat. He circles the car and fetches the roses from the passenger seat, climbs the stairs and wields the door knocker half-hidden underneath a large, beautifully crafted Christmas wreath of holly, pine cones, and poinsettias twisted together.

He hears a masculine voice shout from inside, something like “I’ll get it!”; moments later the front door is yanked open to reveal a younger version of Eames, down to the side parting and the considering look in his eyes. That’s where the similarities end, however – the longer Arthur looks, the more differences he spots. The man’s eyes are more green than green-grey; the hair is closer to blond than Eames’; the man is clean-shaven, with no indication that he ever goes around sporting a three-day stubble. The biggest difference becomes evident as soon as the man smiles – it’s Eames’ sly smile, but it reveals a row of white, perfectly straight teeth. Something in Arthur revolts; suddenly, he misses Eames’ endearingly crooked teeth almost unbearably.

“Hmmm, dark hair, brown eyes, impeccably dressed, sexy as hell... Bloody hell, you’re Arthur!” the man says, equal parts shocked and delighted. The voice and accent are very similar, but just not quite what Arthur has come to adore. “Thank god you’re here, Will has been simply impossible. Come on, I’ll smuggle you to see him before Mum descends on you and you have to sit through an hour of cross-examination. I’m Matthew, by the way, pleasure to meet you!” he holds out a sturdy hand for Arthur to shake.

“You too,” Arthur says, bemused but smiling, and does so. He can’t help liking the man; Matthew has Eames’ easy-going charm and boyish enthusiasm that sweeps people along against their better judgement – and Arthur should know. “Where did you say Ea—William is?”

“He’s sulking out back, smoking his way through my last pack of fags, the selfish bastard,” Matthew answers cheerfully. He pulls the front door to a close behind him and waves for Arthur to follow him, leading him briskly around the corner of the manor.

“Dare I ask why he’s sulking?” _And smoking again,_ Arthur adds silently. Eames hasn’t smoked in over six months now, not to Arthur’s knowledge.

“I should imagine because you took your time getting here,” Matthew says dryly, rubbing his hands together for warmth. He’s only wearing a thin sweater-vest over his pinstriped shirt, the sleeves of which are rolled up; Arthur can see goosebumps spreading over the bare skin.

Arthur frowns. “He doesn’t know I’m coming. _I_ didn’t even know I was coming until I got shoved onto the plane.”

“‘S even worse, then, if he thought he had to get through five more days before seeing you. Will isn’t too subtle when it comes to his personal life.” Matthew looks sheepish for a moment, like he’d pilfered the cookie jar and gotten a smack on the knuckles as a result. “In the interest of full disclosure, I have to admit that it’s probably at least half my fault he’s sulking right now. I, er. I bugged him to tell me about you until he snapped a little.”

Arthur smirks. Well, well. It _was_ rather nice, not being the only one overly invested in this relationship.

“Just behind the corner there,” Matthew directs. “I’ll, uh. You two come in when you’re ready, okay? I think he might deck me if he sees me before he sees you.” He flashes Arthur a grin and ducks through a door at the side of the house.

Arthur walks on, turns the corner into the back gardens, and there Eames is – leaning one broad shoulder in the doorway behind him, contemplating the yellow-grey sky with a scrunch in his forehead and an unhappy twist to his usually generous mouth. Arthur can’t stop staring, drinking in the sight of the annoying, frustrating, wonderful man who has managed to make himself at home under Arthur’s skin without Arthur so much as noticing.

“Piss off, Matthew,” Eames growls without even turning to look at Arthur, sucks viciously on his half-gone cigarette and lets out a large plume of smoke in the chilly air.

Arthur smiles to himself, very much looking forward to the look on Eames’ face when he realises that it really isn’t Matthew walking towards him now, forgotten flowers dangling from his left hand.

“I said—“ Eames begins, turning to glare daggers at the intruder, and his jaw drops with an audible gasp when he spots Arthur closing in on him, not five metres away.

“Wh—Arthur?! I—I thought you were at your parents’?”

“I was,” Arthur says softly, placing the flowers on the sturdy wooden table by the back door and focusing on the way Eames beams at him, all joyful disbelief. “My mother virtually marched me onto the plane herself. Apparently, I was pining.” He smiles self-deprecatingly, reaches out to run a palm over the sleeve of the thick cranberry-red jumper that he had bought for Eames last month.

Eames snaps his mouth shut at last and moves in, pulling Arthur to his chest and wrapping strong arms around him with breathing-impairing strength. He buries his face in Arthur’s hair, taking a deep breath, no doubt smelling airports and planes and rented car on him. Arthur longs for a shower with the fire of a thousand suns – but not just now. He snakes his own arms around Eames’ torso and clings unashamedly, letting his head drop to his shoulder and breathing in the comforting, familiar scent. There’s only Eames around to see him, and apparently he no longer registers on Arthur’s embarrassment radar.

They separate when Arthur can no longer feel his toes – he’s only wearing thin leather Oxfords, and the English countryside mist is sneaking its way inside with alacrity. Eames pulls him into the house; Arthur remembers the roses at the last minute.

“Darling, you brought me flowers!” Eames gushes in his best Romantic Heroine impression.

“They’re not for you, you ass; they’re for your mother. For—barging in uninvited. Is she going to be pissed, do you think?” Arthur asks anxiously.

“She’s going to be bloody _ecstatic_ , she’s been badgering me about you all morning. Thank god you’ve decided to take mercy on me and save me by showing up in all your glory.”

Arthur feels a shiver run down his spine, but by that point it’s already too late – a stylish, beautifully dressed ash-blonde woman bears down on them the second they step through the large glass doors and into what Eames assures him is the red drawing room. She’s on the shortish side, but her grip is strong when she grasps Arthur’s hand and tugs him down to brush a kiss on his wind-chilled cheek.

“Aurora, my dear Arthur; delighted to meet you at last! William has been effusive on your behalf.”

“Pleasure to meet you, ma’am,” Arthur says, presenting her with the thankfully still fresh flowers.

Aurora’s entire face lights up. “Thank you ever so much, my dear! You didn’t have to! They are so beautiful! How did you know blush roses are my favourite? I’d better go put them in some water, won’t be a moment!” She putters out, face buried in the flowers. Arthur avoids looking at Eames, who (he’s sure) is gazing at him in amusement.

“So, apparently you remember every word I’ve ever said,” Eames muses, smirking; Arthur refuses to bite, flushing only slightly since it’s unavoidable. The tension that’s been gripping him ever since he got on the plane to London drains out of his shoulders at last, and even the sound of the damn King’s College Choir starting up in the background can’t ruin his good mood.

~~

He lies on an ornate walnut bed later that night, in a large, luxuriously appointed bedroom that has, apparently, always been Eames’, battling exhaustion and cataloguing the day’s discoveries out of sheer desperation to stay awake until Eames comes out of the shower.

Eames has two brothers and one sister – Matthew, Holly, and Jasper, who’s married to Emily and has a three-year-old boy called Jeremy, with another baby on the way. They are all stunningly beautiful and as pleasant as Arthur could ever have hoped for. Their father had passed on about eleven years ago, just after Eames had joined the Marines, four years before Arthur would first meet him. Arthur had known about it, but he hadn’t known that the man had had a heart condition that Eames’ leaving had exacerbated, or that he’d had a fatal heart attack two months later – just before Christmas, as it happens. No wonder Eames has been tetchy for weeks; Arthur had known there was something else, not just the spending-Christmas-apart.

He now also knows, even though no one’s said a word about it, that Eames has never forgiven himself for springing the news on his father out of the blue – telling him he was leaving three days before he did. He doesn’t know the reasons behind Eames’ poor choice, but he doesn’t want to pry, either; Eames will tell him, or he won’t, but it’ll be his decision.

The shower turns off at last; Arthur hopes he’d left enough hot water for Eames not to get chilled – he’d spent rather longer than usual in the shower, letting the scalding water soothe his tired muscles and the sore back that eighteen hours on the road had given him. Eames emerges in a cloud of bergamot-scented steam; the smell acts as an instant relaxant, and Arthur melts into a boneless heap under the sheets in relief. Eames dries himself off perfunctionally and pulls on a pair of black silk boxers – another of Arthur’s additions to his wardrobe – before climbing under the sheets and curling himself around Arthur’s pliant form.

“I still can’t believe you’re here,” Eames whispers into his neck, nuzzling the skin affectionately. “The bed’s been so empty without you that I’ve hardly slept since I got here.”

Arthur frowns in the shadowy lamplight, looking down at Eames worriedly. He looks exhausted now that he’s relaxed and his eyes are blinking closed, deep furrows obvious in the skin underneath. Arthur’s arms tighten around him involuntarily, pulling him closer against his prone body. Eames pushes a warm, muscled thigh between his, bringing as much of their skin into contact as possible.

“I’ve missed you, too,” Arthur doesn’t say, pressing a kiss into the lined forehead resting against his cheek instead.

Eames sighs contentedly, warm breath huffing across Arthur’s collar bone as he wriggles even closer. It feels like home.

~~

They’re woken in the morning by Jeremy’s excited yells that reverberate throughout the house and all the way up to their room. Eames drags a warm nose down Arthur’s nape, clutching him closer and refusing to be moved. Arthur, who by now has slept for longer than the last four days put together, is as alert as a sad lack of coffee would allow. He tries to disentangle his limbs from Eames’, but Eames is a champion cuddler and refuses to be thwarted so easily. It’s not until Arthur turns in his arms, pushes him flat on his back, nudges his legs open and presses their morning erections together that Eames even considers opening his eyes. He hums happily, lets his legs fall apart even further and pulls Arthur closer against him.

Arthur starts a languid rhythm, just rocking his weight forward to provide delicious friction that has Eames panting for more in minutes. When Eames grabs his ass and lifts his hips into the movement, mashing their hard-ons together, Arthur wiggles to divest both of them of their underwear and determinedly sets to driving Eames mindless.

“Tell me, tell me you want this,” Arthur urges, nearly breathless.

“Fuck _yes_ ,” Eames growls, rocking harder. “I always want you, always, even when you’re being an insufferable know-it-all and a stubborn arse. _Especially_ when you’re being a stubborn arse.” He gasps the last word into Arthur’s mouth, because Arthur has just driven a spit-slicked finger inside him with little warning but deadly skill.

Eames groans and his hips stutter, so eager for it that Arthur’s cock starts leaking all over the place just from the sounds the man keeps making under him. He’s got two fingers inside now, sliding down Eames’ muscled body and licking around the edges of them, forcing more spit into Eames’ entrance; his fingers are being squeezed viciously by Eames’ inner muscles in an effort to stop them leaving his body again. Eames isn’t nearly as tight as five days with no penetration should make him, and Arthur tells him so in detail, hot breath trailing over his twitching balls.

“Fingered myself,” Eames says on an exhale that sounds like a moan, gripping his shoulders hard, nearly speechless with need as Arthur bites at the strong muscles of his inner thigh over and over again, no doubt leaving one hell of a hickey. “Every bloody night I’ve been here without you. Thought of you, imagined it was your fingers inside me, filling me, but it was never enough, it’s never enough when it’s not you, your cock buried so deep inside my arse that I can feel you in my throat, _fuck, Arthur_ , fuck me already, oh god come _on_.”

Eames is fairly thrashing under his weight now, fucking himself down on his unyielding fingers, his ass opening beautifully under Arthur’s ministrations. Arthur can barely think any more with the images Eames’ gruff voice evokes weaving mercilessly through his mind.

“Where?” he growls, and Eames’ hips snap upwards again, rhythm shot to hell, driving the now-three fingers deeper.

“Top drawer,” he rasps, sounding destroyed.

Arthur performs some frankly uncomfortable acrobatics to get to the lube without removing his fingers from where they are wrecking Eames’ composure further and further with each passing second. His hand closes around the tube at last, and he wastes no time slicking himself up liberally. The noise Eames makes when he tugs out his fingers and starts pushing his cock inside the stretched opening is _obscene_ ; Arthur has to bite at his lower lip hard enough to draw blood to have any hope of hanging on to his control. A thin red trickle makes its way down his chin; Eames scrunches upwards and licks it off greedily, takes his mouth, devours it even as he feeds him small sounds of pleasure that slither down Arthur’s spine and lodge straight in his balls.

Eames shifts a little, tilting his hips further, and Arthur slides all the way inside with no further obstruction. He muffles the groan that spills from his lips unchecked into Eames’ delicious-smelling throat. Then Eames clenches around him and slides his palm up Arthur’s chest to pinch a nipple; Arthur exhales harshly and starts pounding into him helplessly, until Eames is yelling hoarsely and spasming around him, milking his orgasm out of him until he’s shaking and sprawling on top of Eames’ sweaty, semen-streaked body.

“Oh, Christ,” Eames breathes, still twitching from the aftershocks, tightening weakly around Arthur when he slips out with a filthy sound, one that Arthur knows full well will be on repeat in his head all damn day, every time he sees Eames sit down too clumsily, or shift uncomfortably against a chair with an unconscious wince.

“God, Arthur,” Eames murmurs weakly into Arthur’s sweat-damp hair, arms wrapped around his narrower shoulders, fingers stroking along his spine idly. He doesn’t say anything more, but Arthur knows what he means. He shifts closer and proceeds to snatch another five minutes away from the busy day, just the two of them holding each other in the warm bed that doesn’t feel empty anymore.

~~

“Your present isn’t actually here, darling,” Eames says apologetically, sitting in an ocean of torn wrapping paper and holding on tight to Jeremy’s wriggling little body while the kid tries to latch onto his father’s long legs and beg to be allowed to go play with his new boat in the unfortunately frozen lake outside. Jasper shakes his head in despair and picks him up, mumbling something about filling up the jacuzzi.

“It isn’t?” Arthur plays along.

“No, I was supposed to be fetching it tomorrow from London. It was an excuse to get out of the house before it all got a bit much,” Eames murmurs into his neck, pressing full lips briefly to the warm skin. Aurora sends him a sharply suspicious glance; Eames grins back innocently, but it’s tinged with a sadness that Arthur knows for what it is – the ghost of a still-mourned father.

“I’m breathless with anticipation,” Arthur deadpans, but he really is looking forward to spending some time alone with Eames, even if it does mean driving into London and back again.

Aurora sighs in disappointment. “I suppose I’d better make the best of it while you’re here, William. I’m under no illusions that you’ve any intention of coming back once you’ve whisked dear Arthur away to town. Oh, well. I did get four whole days with you this time round; I shouldn’t really complain.”

Eames beams at her unashamedly and she shakes her head fondly. “I really should thank you, Arthur,” she says, turning her amused glance to him. “William has been immensely more pleasant company since you arrived. I simply must extract a promise from you to visit along with him as often as he manages to tear himself away from work.”

Arthur smiles back, throwing Eames a knowing look that makes him frown in question; Arthur ignores him. He’ll explain later. “How could I possibly refuse?” he agrees dryly. He sees where Eames gets his charmingly crooked grin from when Aurora bestows just such a one on him in approval.

In the afternoon, the siblings decide to take the family’s three golden retrievers for a long, rambling walk before it gets dark and it’s time for yet more food. Arthur gets a chance to explore the vast grounds, hand tucked snugly into Eames’ as the five of them meander along after the dogs and an ecstatic Jeremy, chatting mildly about everything and nothing. It’s a few hours before the light starts to go and the first fat snowflakes drift gently towards the ground, the ominous clouds that Arthur had scrutinised yesterday finally delivering their load.

Hence, Arthur isn’t too surprised when Boxing Day dawns on a vast blanket of white smothering the countryside around the manor in cold and silence. It’s not too thick yet, not enough to stop him and Eames from driving back to London, but the way tiny snowflakes dance through the air promises several more inches in the next few hours. Forewarned, he and Eames pack quickly and ferry their bags to Arthur’s rented car as soon as they’re done, as Eames had hitched a ride with Matthew on the way over.

Aurora insists they take breakfast with the rest of the family before they go, some of whom are also casting worried glances at the weather and each other. Arthur has a feeling that the house will not stay full for too much longer – even Aurora is thinking about returning to town; he sees it in the almost invisible furrow in her forehead that’s so like her eldest son’s.

When they’re done with their eggs and bacon, Eames refreshes his and Arthur’s coffees absentmindedly, thoughts already on the drive back. Arthur thanks him with a private smile, which makes Eames snap back to the here-and-now with gratifying swiftness.

“Let’s go,” Arthur murmurs, unwilling to prolong the wait. It’s already gone eleven, and the day isn’t getting any longer.

To his surprise, he gets pretty much the same treatment as Eames, minus the fond motherly scolding and brotherly baiting. Aurora hugs him goodbye, kisses his cheek in parting and tasks him again to make sure ‘William’ brings him along when he visits. Holly hugs him as well, her long strawberry-blonde hair flowing over the two of them like a curtain blown by the wind, and laughingly exchanges email addresses with him ‘for pointers, and for when Will’s in a sulk and you need someone to vent at’. Jeremy waves to him shyly from behind his father’s legs, and to his barely-restrained amusement Jasper and Matthew both make a point of taking him aside for a moment, for a ‘brotherly talk’.

“I know he doesn’t show it, but he’s not invincible, you know. And he’s pretty smitten with you. So just keep that in mind, okay?” Jasper says, a little awkward but no less serious. Arthur sees Emily smile proudly behind Jasper’s back as Arthur solemnly nods. Jasper has been nothing but friendly and supportive – but if pressed, Arthur would hazard a guess that there had been some tension between him and Eames when Eames had come out to the family, even if it is years in the past and they’ve both mostly gotten over it.

Matthew just squints at him as he shakes Arthur’s hand, for a moment presenting such a horrifying mix of Eames and Cobb that Arthur has to work hard to muffle the hysterical laughter trying to burst forth. He nods, though – he understands the sentiment all too well. It’s actually rather touching, the way the two instinctively reach to protect their elder brother. It tells Arthur all he needs to know about the Eameses. He can’t say that he disapproves.

Eames seems to find it all a brilliant joke, if the way he baits his younger brothers is anything to go by. Finally, Matthew all but pushes him into the car, not bothering to cover his irritation. Eames submits gracefully, tugging at Arthur to follow. They drive away from the manor to many a colourful arm waving from the wrapped-up group.

Arthur leans back into his seat, exhaling contentedly. “I like them,” he confides, grinning at Eames. “They’re all as mad as you.”

Eames snorts, keeping his eyes on the snow-covered road. “If you think we’re mad, just wait until you meet the rest of the family – my cousin Anna’s a stunt double in Hollywood, and she’s the tamest of the lot of them!”

 _Yes,_ Arthur thinks to himself, smiling. _Yes, I’ll meet all of them. I’m looking forward to it._

~~

Turns out that all the fuss Eames has been making is totally, completely justified when he pulls the car to a stop in front of a subtly-lit townhouse on Saville Row. Arthur tries not to salivate and fails spectacularly. There is an unobtrusive onyx plaque with a crown etched into it by the front door, advertising to those in the know that this particular tailor works by royal appointment. Underneath it is another, the name [Neil Barrett](http://www.gq-magazine.co.uk/style/catwalk-fashion-shows/AW2010/Mens/milan/Neil_Barrett/full-length-photos?page=2#) standing out in silver from the black background. Arthur can only blink at Eames as he calmly knocks on the front door, turning to look at him with a pleased smirk.

“What—“ Arthur starts, just as the door is flung open and a thin man in ragged jeans and a tight sweater jumps out, grinning happily at Eames.

“William Eames, as I live and breathe,” says Neil Barrett himself. For the first time in his life, Arthur is a little star-struck.

“Oh, don’t start, Neil,” Eames groans theatrically as he pulls the man into a loose one-armed hug.

“Okay, okay,” Neil laughs, thumping his back enthusiastically. “How are you, mate? And you must be Arthur – I suppose I’ve you to thank for the chance to see Eames here for the first time in nigh on five years!” He extends a hand, which Arthur takes without hesitation.

“Mmm, I can see what all the fuss was about,” Neil murmurs, running a practiced eye down Arthur’s own trim frame. “Yes, they’ll look damn near perfect on him, you’re right,” he tells Eames without looking away from Arthur’s hips.

Arthur looks at Eames in question, but Eames just winks at him, with that damn twinkle in his eyes. “Let’s go in, shall we?” Eames prompts. “I’m freezing my bollocks off out here. I see your manners haven’t improved.”

Neil smacks him on the arm in mock irritation but steps back so they can follow him inside into the warm, well-lit vestibule. “Still a cheeky bugger, in’t’cha,” Neil grouches, leading the way into what must have once been the living room but is now an airy, well-appointed studio strewn with fabrics of every shade and pattern imaginable.

Eames laughs easily. “Listen, thanks for doing this for me today,” he says, the teasing lilt gone from his voice for once.

“Anything for you, you know that,” Neil waves him off. At Arthur’s raised eyebrows, he supplies, “Eames helped me set up when I was starting off. Fresh out of St Martin’s I was -- no money, no sponsors, nothing to show for it but my graduate collection. Your mate here took one look at it and dragged me down to his banker, signed over twenty-five grand to me on the spot. Then he had to drag me all the way back home, too – I almost passed out in the bank. I owe him big time.”

“All right, all right. Let’s see ‘em, then,” Eames waves him off as Arthur turns to look at him, astonished.

“You know—never mind, _of fucking course_ you know Neil Barrett from when he was at St Martin’s. Why am I even surprised any more?” Arthur throws his hands in the air, more resigned than annoyed.

“And now _you_ know Neil Barrett, too, so it works out nicely, doesn’t it?” Eames grins. “Actually, it works out beautifully that you’re here – I’m pretty sure I have the measurements right, I got them off your newest Canali, but it’s always better to try these things on, just in case they need adjustments done.”

Arthur’s mouth is opening and closing soundlessly. He really _doesn’t_ know why he’s surprised anymore – Eames is a sneaky bastard at the best of times. Just then Neil comes out, carrying a [perfection of wool and leather](http://www.gq-magazine.co.uk/style/catwalk-fashion-shows/AW2010/Mens/milan/Neil_Barrett/full-length-photos?page=2#/imageno/15) that drives every other thought from Arthur’s mind and makes his knees feel unreasonably weak. The black leather boots Neil has swinging from his other hand are not helping matters. He stops himself from grabbing greedily at the clothes only by virtue of his aforementioned good manners.

Neil chuckles at the look on Arthur’s face, handing them over without delay. “Off you go, then. You can get changed in the second room on the left, the one with the 360 degree mirror.”

Arthur just about manages to mumble a ‘thank you’ before he’s off. The leather feels supple and butter-soft in his hands, and the wool is smooth and warm when he strokes it. He can barely wait to feel all this on him. He finds the room without undue stumbling and makes an effort not to rip his clothes off in his rush. The leather fulfils every promise it makes, sliding over his legs like a second skin, clinging tightly to every curve. He watches as it slips over his ass, fitting so perfectly that his own mouth waters. It hugs his already-half-hard cock lovingly as he arranges himself inside and zips the crotch up carefully. The jacket slips over his narrow shoulders smoothly, the leather lining teasing his cold-hardened nipples mercilessly. He should probably have left his undershirt on, Arthur muses, but the temptation to wrap his naked body in the gorgeous fabrics had just been too strong to resist.

The suit is perfect, down to the last carefully-applied stitch. Arthur tugs the boots on, mindful of the tightness in his cock, laces them up, straightens and looks at himself in the mirror. He can’t suppress the shudder that races down his spine at the sight, at the thought of Eames’ reaction when he sees him like this. As if the spike of lust has summoned him, the mirrored door opens and Eames slips into the room, mouth falling open and eyes glazing over.

“Holy fuck,” he breathes – pants, really, eyes shifting restlessly, as if he doesn’t know where to look first.

“I know they’re _my_ Christmas present, but I feel the strange urge to say ‘Merry Christmas, Mr. Eames’,” Arthur delivers in his smoothest drawl. Eames swallows convulsively, eyes stuck to Arthur’s crotch, which is rapidly becoming uncomfortably confining.

Suddenly, Eames makes a noise of utter despair. Arthur panics for a second, before Eames wails, “I should never have let you try this on here; how are we ever going to get to the hotel with you looking like _this_?”

The smirk that steals over Arthur’s face is truly a thing of evil. “Well, Mr Eames,” he purrs, “I suggest we find out, and fast.”

Eames barely has time to wave at a laughing Neil as he drags Arthur behind him and out of the door.

Arthur shouts a ‘thanks’ over his shoulder, clutching his discarded clothes to his stomach as Eames tugs him down the front steps and bundles him into the passenger seat of the car, giggling like a schoolboy. The cold has put a flush to his cheeks, contrasting beautifully with his tanned skin and mussed blond hair, and Arthur thinks that he is quite possibly the most beautiful thing he has ever seen. Then Eames slides behind the wheel and turns to him, with _that look_ in his eyes and _that smile_ on his lips, and Arthur has to revise that statement. Distractedly, he considers that this is likely to happen over and over again, for the rest of his life. He can’t find a single fault with that.

~~

The pants prove they’re staying for the long haul when they survive Eames’ frantic pawing at them without busting a single stitch. The jacket lies long-forgotten on the floor by the front door, and the boots are currently being kicked off Arthur’s feet by Eames’ impatient toes. Arthur has Eames pinned against the wall; Eames’ fingers are nimbly working the button and zip down, taking Arthur out of the delightfully snug pants and stroking him to full hardness – which admittedly doesn’t take long. Arthur has by now spent over an hour being helplessly subjected to the way the leather flexes with his body, warms with its heat; all it takes is that twist that Eames knows makes Arthur’s knees weak and Arthur is thrusting against Eames’ hip desperately, drinking Eames’ groans with his mouth.

“Bed?” Arthur chokes when Eames dips a thumb in his slit, screws his wrist under Arthur’s glans and bites at Arthur’s neck when he throws his head back, gritting his teeth at the shot of lust that spikes through him.

“Won’t make it that far,” Eames groans when Arthur takes one hand off the wall to push his unbuttoned jeans off and squeeze his ass, hard.

Arthur privately agrees, but for what he wants to do to Eames, they definitely need a firm mattress underneath them. “Come on,” he grunts and takes hold of Eames’ jacket lapels, pulls him away from the wall and drags him further into the hotel room. Eames hops on one leg and then the other as he pulls off his shoes and sheds his jeans and pants, trying to balance himself – difficult, with the way Arthur tugs his jacket and t-shirt off his shoulders with swift, decisive pulls.

Arthur pushes him backwards when he’s done, and Eames falls to sprawl full-length over the bed’s honey-gold coverlet with an ‘oof’ of air slammed from his lungs. Arthur crawls on top of him, a predatory grin baring his teeth. Eames’ eyes drift down Arthur’s body, from the firm, pale shoulders to the flat stomach and down to the gaping flap of his pants, still sticking to his ass. The way he smiles up at Arthur speaks volumes about Christmas mornings, and how they don’t even compare.

~~

Later, they lie exhausted and panting on the wonderfully soft bed, Arthur’s arm and leg thrown possessively over Eames’ sweaty body. He’s trying to catch his breath enough to move, but he’s so spent that it doesn’t seem to be happening any time soon. Eames’ arms are folded around him, clutching at him a little desperately. Eames’ nose is buried in Arthur’s hair; Arthur feels his exhales tickling over his ear and down his shoulder, making his damp skin shiver with the current.

“We’re going to have to work out a schedule,” Arthur says apropos-of-nothing, still languid and post-coital, pressing a kiss to the centre of Eames’ chest. “Sort through every major holiday that requires some form of family reunion and decide which family we’re spending it with, because I’m not spending another Christmas apart from you, not if I can help it.”

Eames stills underneath him, and Arthur considers for an endless, terrifying moment that he might have made a mistake, might have got the wrong end of the stick, even after everything. Then Eames is tugging his head upwards and attacking his mouth, kissing him almost violently, like staking a claim, pushing his hand into Arthur’s hair and holding on tight. “Okay,” he whispers against Arthur’s swollen lips, before kissing him again.


End file.
